said he.

"Well, well, I don't know but it is," said Uncle Lot; "but, as I said at
first, I don't like the look of it in meetin'."

"But yet you really think it is better than nothing," said James, "for
you see I couldn't pitch my tunes without it."

"Maybe 'tis," said Uncle Lot; "but that isn't sayin' much."

This, however, was enough for Master James, who soon after departed,
with his flute in his pocket, and Grace's last words in his heart;
soliloquizing as he shut the gate, "There, now, I hope Aunt Sally won't
go to praising me; for, just so sure as she does, I shall have it all to
do over again."

James was right in his apprehension. Uncle Lot could be privately
converted, but not brought to open confession; and when, the next
morning, Aunt Sally remarked, in the kindness of her heart,--

"Well, I always knew you would come to like James," Uncle Lot only
responded, "Who said I did like him?"

"But I'm sure you _seemed_ to like him last night."

"Why, I couldn't turn him out o' doors, could I? I don't think nothin'
of him but what I always did."

But it was to be remarked that Uncle Lot contented himself at this time
with the mere general avowal, without running it into particulars, as
was formerly his wont. It was evident that the ice had begun to melt,
but it might have been a long time in dissolving, had not collateral
incidents assisted.

It so happened that, about this time, George Griswold, the only son
before referred to, returned to his native village, after having
completed his theological studies at a neighboring institution. It is
interesting to mark the gradual development of mind and heart, from the
time that the white-headed, bashful boy quits the country village for
college, to the period when he returns, a formed and matured man, to
notice how gradually the rust of early prejudices begins to cleave from
him--how his opinions, like his handwriting, pass from the cramped and
limited forms of a country school into that confirmed and characteristic
style which is to mark the man for life. In George this change was
remarkably striking. He was endowed by nature with uncommon acuteness of
feeling and fondness for reflection--qualities as likely as any to
render a child backward and uninteresting in early life.

When he left Newbury for college, he was a taciturn and apparently
phlegmatic boy, only evincing sensibility by blushing and looking
particularly stupefied whenever any body spoke to hi